


Grace Notes Out of Tune

by OceanTheSoulRebel



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: A little angst, Canon Timeline, Crowley has some issues, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Masturbation, vivid imaginations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-13
Updated: 2019-07-13
Packaged: 2020-06-09 22:28:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19485289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OceanTheSoulRebel/pseuds/OceanTheSoulRebel
Summary: Aziraphale would be gentle, Crowley decided in his delirium. He would be a Satan-damned knight in shining armor and treat him right, would keep his hands soft at Crowley’s hips while giving experimental thrusts, would pet him with teasing touches. Crowley had watched Aziraphale on countless occasions working some bite or tidbit of food with his tongue, savoring it, as if the angel could be fed further by the memory alone. Aziraphale would be gentle and thorough and trusting, wouldsavorhim—and he wouldruinCrowley.A desperate Crowley seeks relief in a familiar fantasy.





	Grace Notes Out of Tune

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to my amazing betas! This wouldn't have been as great as it is without you! ♡♡♡ Taselby, Little-Wolf-White-Peacock, and WoolyLambda.

_You go too fast for me, Crowley._

The words rang in Crowley's ears even as his fist worked his cock. He groaned, eyes clenched tightly shut against the reality of his empty apartment. In his inner eye, the one that saw the cosmos in all its infinite glory, he found Aziraphale’s laugh, the crinkle of his smile, the light of his eyes. 

“Zira,” he panted. His hand twisted at the base of his cock just the right way and pulled a shudder from him. Crowley shifted upon the silk-smooth sheets, spreading his legs. Of its own will, his free hand rose to his mouth, fingers dipping in to slide across his tongue. His hips bucked as he rutted into his fist. 

Zira chuckled in his ear. “Eager, are we?” 

Crowley moaned around his fingers and laved them with spit before trailing them south, skimming wetly over his nipples on their way down. His stomach clenched at the light touch. He bent his leg, spreading himself wide, wider, until his thighs quivered and shook in anticipation. 

“Just like that,” Zira murmured. Crowley could feel the ghost of his breath, sweet and cocoa-scented, on the shell of his ear. “Let me see you.” 

Crowley whimpered at the gentle command. His right hand squeezed around his cock and stilled its motions. His left delved between his thighs to press damp fingertips against his hole. 

“Oh, fuck. Fuck—Zira, yeah.” Two long fingers breached his entrance, the slide exquisite and slow. Crowley gave a shaking breath. He shifted and curled his fingers in their stroking. The stars he’d spent so long crafting exploded behind his eyelids. 

“Good, good, my dear.” A ghostly hand hovered over Crowley’s skin, almost-petting along the lean planes of his chest. “And to think, we could have done this two thousand years ago. Do you remember?” 

“Rome,” Crowley grit out. He shoved his fingers harder into himself and rubbed his thumb against the stretched ring of his rim as he scissored his fingers apart. “The—the oysters.” 

“The very same. What a good memory you have.” Zira tutted. “Come now, my dear. This isn’t how you really want it, is it?” The words were low, husky in his disbelief. “Show me,” he urged. “Show your angel what you need.” 

Crowley gave an anguished sob. He twisted and reached for the bedside table, throwing open the drawer to fumble for the bottle of lube and the dildo. Crowley settled on his knees and slicked it with lube before bending forward, his ass bared to the cool air. His hand dove behind him and he thrust the toy inside without preamble. He hissed against the burning stretch of it but only bore down, taking it as quickly as his body would allow. 

Aziraphale would be gentle, Crowley decided in his delirium. He would be a Satan-damned knight in shining armor and treat him right, would keep his hands soft at Crowley’s hips while giving experimental thrusts, would pet him with teasing touches. Crowley had watched Aziraphale on countless occasions working some bite or tidbit of food with his tongue, savoring it, as if the angel could be fed further by the memory alone. Aziraphale would be gentle and thorough and trusting, would _savor_ him—and he would _ruin_ Crowley. 

Crowley twisted his hand and ground down on the toy, flush against his ass, before inching out and roughly slamming it back inside. It slid in and out in cruel mockery that hardly dented the deep-seated _need_ that scoured his bones. Gentle could be nice but he wanted—he needed— 

“So good, Crowley,” Zira cooed softly. “I told you there’s good in you, yet.” 

“Please, please…” Crowley’s aching cock dripped onto the bedspread and throbbed in time with the thrust of the toy. A distinct whine escaped him. He angled the dildo just so, all but milking his prostate in a rhythm that had him seeing white. “Zira, fuck, please—” 

Crowley fisted his cock in tight, punishing pulls. He moaned; it was too much, not enough, never enough. Crowley wanted more, he _needed_ more. He was close, so close. His hips bucked as he fucked the toy with growing desperation. 

“What is it you want? You can tell me, you know. We’re on the same side, aren’t we?” A warm weight settled across Crowley’s back, the phantom memory of Aziraphale’s touch. “Shouldn’t you confide in me?”

Cosmic fire bloomed in his gut and Crowley arched his back. “You,” he breathed. He rocked into the toy and twisted his hand, tight to the point of too much. Everything in him clenched and shook. He pressed the toy as deep as he could get it. “Fucking hell— heaven—oh, oh, _Zira!_ ”

The cry tore from his throat as he came, hot spurts that scalded his hand. Tears pricked at his eyes and he stroked himself through it until he grew oversensitive and squirmed under his skin. Crowley pressed his forehead into the mattress and shuddered, letting the tears fall where they would. 

“Aziraphale,” he breathed, voice shaking. The sheets muffled the sound but there it was, heavy in the darkness. In the old days, angels could hear prayers, benedictions invoking their names, pleas for intercession on humanity’s behalf. He wondered, as his heartbeat stammered in his chest, if Aziraphale could still hear them—if anyone prayed to the Angel of the Eastern Gate, the banished Principality who had forsaken his own role to protect the ancestors of humanity. 

Crowley wondered if Aziraphale would hear him, should he find himself prayerful. 

_There is no ‘us,’ Crowley! There never was!_

The guilt, long since familiar, settled in quickly on the heels of the adrenaline. “Oh, fuck off,” Crowley huffed. “I’m a demon, I don’t do ‘guilt’.” He pulled the toy from his body with a wince and tossed it unceremoniously on the bed before flopping onto his back. With nary a breath, he and the bed were clean again, all evidence of the night’s activities miracle’d away like they’d never happened in the first place. 

And if he was a stronger man, they might not have at all. But weakness was why he’d fallen in the first place, wasn’t it? 

“It isn’t a weakness to want answers, Crowley…” 

“I suppose you should take that up with the Big Boss, then,” Crowley huffed. He laid his forearm across his eyes. If he could just keep them shut, then the rest would stay out. Armageddon could go hang. Aziraphale—or, rather, this version of him, his Zira, lovely and yielding and trusting and _here_ —would stay put, in a bed they’d never shared but one more than large enough for two, in a fantasy Crowley had replayed so often it was going fuzzy around the edges, not quite right anymore, not quite true to who either of them could be.

It was a disgustingly easy routine. He would come until he felt only emptiness, then feel guilty, and tell himself it didn’t matter if he felt guilty or did it again. Then, of course, he’d ignore his urges until they bubbled from under his skin like a font and he'd find himself back in the cycle once more.

“You know what it was that I asked?” Crowley asked abruptly, a deviation from the norm. 

Back when God still Listened, back when They were Here, he had had the audacity to question. At first They had laughed, a parent to an inquisitive child, and explained, and showed, and preened. _Yes, very good, very clever,_ They had praised him. _What a clever angel you are._

Crowley had watched the birth of countless civilizations among the stars, one after another. Hell, he had nurtured some of them himself, had healed their hurts, had whisked their prayers to the Almighty. He had set the constellations in the sky to inspire their devotion, had birthed their nebulas and painted their horizons. He had been proud to work so closely in the Light of the Divine, to be given the opportunity to help Create. 

But Crowley had seen the way the mortal beings coped with their blink-and-you-miss-it lifespans: the Almighty’s gift of love, a scorching, consuming thing that ate up worry and gave back so much more. It wasn’t perfect--sometimes it was the inverse, leaving ruin in its wake, but each time… it was truly Divine. It was foreign, something never allowed for angels, something never even considered by his brethren. They may have been created by the Divine but, for all their power, angels could never truly experience the Almighty’s gifts.

_“But why can’t angels love, the way your other creations do?”_ he had asked. _“What’s the wisdom in that?”_

But They hadn’t an answer, and so he asked, and asked, and asked. 

“‘Why aren’t we allowed,’ I’d asked, and I was too greedy, wanted far too much.” His voice was a rasp in the quiet room. “The others said I was jealous—as if it were some, some infection, some defect. I had everything I had ever wanted, everything I could have dreamed of: a purpose, a role, a place in Heaven that was my own, all for being such a clever angel. But I couldn’t stop asking questions. And so I turned away, and then the war broke out. Even then, I was too proud.”

“I… I didn’t know,” his mental Aziraphale supplied. 

“How could you? It was before your time. You weren’t there…” Crowley sighed and pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes, colors bursting like stars behind his lids. “Just as you aren’t here.” 

Crowley opened his eyes to stare blankly at the ceiling. “It’s whatever,” he muttered to the empty room. He shuffled to his side and curled in on himself in the middle of the bed. “It’s tickety-boo.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! I appreciate comments and kudos, and strive to answer them all! 
> 
> Follow me on Tumblr: [@Ocean-In-My-Rebel-Soul](https://ocean-in-my-rebel-soul.tumblr.com/)  
> Follow me on Twitter: [@OceanSoulRebel](https://twitter.com/Ocean_SoulRebel)


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